Canyon: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (The Traveler Book 2) (18 page)

Battle clenched his jaw and his fists, inadvertently crushing the matchbook in his left hand. The Cartel was worse than the Scourge. There were those who were immune to the pneumonia, those who were beyond its reach. Nobody, it seemed, was immune from the Cartel.

Battle stuffed the crumpled matchbook into his pocket and found his way to his backpack. He lay down on his stomach and crawled toward the light. He inched toward the support beam that separated the twin garage doors and lay behind it just inside the space.

He peeked out from underneath the open door. There was nobody there. He listened. Nothing. He was safe for the moment.

From his position on the floor, Battle reached into his breast pocket, inside the partially zipped hoodie, and gripped a piece of photographic paper.

On the paper was a picture of a man Battle barely recognized. His eyes shone, his muddy brown hair was neatly cropped. He was tanned and healthy. Filling his cheeks was a broad, genuine smile. His teeth were remarkably white.

To his left was a gorgeous dark-haired woman. Her eyes drilled through him, even from the faded photograph. She was grinning, a hint of devilishness on her face. Her left arm was hidden behind the man’s back, her right hand placed lovingly on his chest.

To the man’s right was a young boy who was the diminutive clone of the two adults. He was blessed with her eyes. His smile was his father’s. His wiry, prepubescent arms were wrapped around his dad’s neck. Behind them was a treehouse. He pulled the photograph to his face and inhaled. The photograph smelled of smoke. It was intoxicating.

Battle’s eyes welled. A knot tied itself thickly into the base of his throat. He blinked away the tears, swallowed the knot whole, and replaced the paper in his breast pocket. He held his hand at his chest for a moment and exhaled.

Battle slid out from underneath the door and slugged his pack onto both shoulders. He tightened the waist strap and checked McDunnough. He had plenty of ammunition should he need it.

He had no idea where Lola or Pico had gone. He didn’t have any clue as to where the posse was or how close Skinner might be getting.

He hoped, for his friends’ sakes, they’d kept north to Lubbock, but knew them well enough to believe they’d come back for him. That could be fatal for all of them.

If the Cartel would summarily assassinate a town full of people over what was likely nothing, he could only imagine what they’d do to someone who’d challenged them and threatened them the way he had.

He left the gas station and turned back toward the shotgun houses, hoping he’d find a stray horse. There was the possibility, he reasoned, that his horse had stayed in the area. There was also a chance the dead posse boss’s animal was nearby.

He jogged across the street and hurriedly wove his way between two sets of houses, finding himself at the spot where he’d fallen off his horse. As he emerged from the narrow space, he didn’t find any horses.

Instead he found a Browning shotgun aimed at his head. At the other end of that muzzle was a man in a white hat leaning against a matching SUV. He was flanked by too many men to count. They too were armed.

“Mad Max, I presume?” he drawled, a sneer snaking across his face as he spoke from behind the shotgun’s iron sights. A limp cigarette was dancing on his lips as he spoke.

Battle weighed his options. There weren’t any. He dropped McDunnough to the dirt and raised his hands above his head. “Cyrus Skinner, I’m guessing.”

The man grumbled out a laugh that sounded like a car failing to start. “What gave me away?”

“The stench.”

The sneer on Skinner’s face retreated into a frown. He motioned to his men. Four of them marched for Battle. Two of them took him by the arms while the others kept their weapons trained at his face. They forcibly walked him toward the white-hatted heathen in command.

“Despite my better judgment,” Skinner said, “I’m gonna have to keep you alive.”

Battle struggled against the grunts but didn’t say anything. He kept his glare fixed on Skinner, a man whose countenance was different from the other depraved grunts and bosses he’d seen.

There was something missing in his eyes, a conscience, or maybe a soul altogether. Battle studied the lines that ran along the edges of the man’s nose, the nasty curl of his mouth, the gaunt, skeletal shape of his cheeks. His right ear was blackened with dried blood. It looked as if a tiny piece might be missing near the lobe.

Skinner lowered his weapon and leaned it against the front of the SUV. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette. His thick chest broadened as he inhaled deeply, his black eyes narrowing. He exhaled, blowing the smoke directly into Battle’s face. “That don’t mean I can’t rough you up a bit, though,” he said.

Battle didn’t react. He was stoic.

Skinner pinched the cigarette and drew it from his lips. He stepped toward Battle and, his eyes never leaving Battle’s, pressed it into the side of his neck.

Battle flinched at the initial burn, but he bit down on the inside of his cheek to counteract the pain. Even as his eyes watered from the sting, he didn’t lose eye contact with Skinner.

Skinner pulled the cigarette from Battle’s neck and immediately pressed it to another spot, his face alit with sadistic joy. Battle tensed again and cleared his throat. Still, he remained silent. Skinner twisted the cigarette against Battle’s neck, putting it out against his skin. He flicked the butt against Battle’s face and leaned back against the SUV with his arms folded.

“Battle’s a funny name,” he said. The collection of grunts around him laughed. “That a real name, or you come up with it to sound tough?”

Battle said nothing.

Skinner looked over at one of the grunts with a Browning pointed at Battle. He waved his hand at him. “Hand me that gun,” he said. “The nine millimeter. I wanna see it.”

The grunt handed over McDunnough. Skinner turned it over in his hand, apparently admiring its craftsmanship. He shook it in his hand. “Nice,” he said and pointed it at Battle’s face, pushing the bushing at the end of the muzzle into his brow.

Battle resisted the temptation to close his eyes. He didn’t even blink.

“You need to start talking,” said Skinner. “Or I’m gonna have to disobey my orders.”

“Let me ask a question,” Battle said.

“He speaks,” Skinner said to the assembled grunts. He laughed. They laughed. “Go ahead,
Battle
.”

Battle sighed. “What happened to the people in this town?”

Skinner tilted his head like a dog and squeezed his eyes. “What people?”

“All of them.”

Skinner twisted the handgun against Battle’s skin. “You’re speaking in riddles.”

“Everyone in this town is dead,” Battle replied. “You killed them.”

“So you
know
what happened to them, then.” Skinner chuckled.

“Why did you kill all of them?” Battle asked. “What did they do?”

Skinner held up three fingers with his free hand and thumped Battle’s forehead with McDunnough three times. “That’s three questions.”

Battle sniffed. He didn’t respond.

“I dunno,” Skinner said. “’Cause we could. Ain’t nothing in this town we need. Ain’t nobody we need. Somebody might have lipped off. Who knows? Why do you care anyhow?”

Battle swallowed. “I didn’t say I cared.”

“Tough guy.” Skinner pulled the gun from Battle’s head and stuck it in his empty holster. He motioned at one of the grunts holding Battle by the arm. The grunt reared back and slammed the butt of his shotgun into the side of Battle’s head.

“Time to go,” Skinner said. He slid into his seat and activated the satellite phone. It took a moment to produce a signal. “We got him,” he said. “We’re on our way.”

The men loaded Battle into the back of the SUV. They’d be in Lubbock before sundown.

CHAPTER 24

OCTOBER 15, 2037, 2:35 PM

SCOURGE + 5 YEARS

NORTH OF POST, TEXAS

“We need to go back,” Lola called to Pico. “We saved him once. We could do it again.”

They were riding north on state Highway 207. It split from Highway 84 on the eastern side of Post. They’d outdistanced the posse chasing them in town and were a good three miles from it.

“We can’t,” Pico said. “If they got him, we can’t help him. There were too many of them. If they didn’t get him, he’ll be fine. We’ll meet him in Lubbock.”

Lola gripped the saddle horn and rubbed it with her palm. The constant waves of guilt she felt over losing her son were always roiling beneath the surface. The idea that she’d abandoned the man who was helping her rescue Sawyer was overwhelming. She sank in the saddle as the horse galloped forward. There was something deep within her that told her Sawyer was alive. That same voice was certain Battle was dead. Lola was a realist. She had to be in the dusty, violent hell forged by the plague and its survivors.

Before the Scourge, Lola had lived the life of an eternal optimist. A native Floridian, she’d grown up in Jacksonville. She was an only child. Her father was retired Navy. He was a demanding but loving man who raised her by himself after his wife left him when Lola was nine.

Her father had retreated into a shell, and Lola became the caretaker at a young age. It was her responsibility, she had resolved, to provide the light where she could see only dark. And she had.

Her sunny disposition, and constant belief that tomorrow would be better than today, eventually had drawn her father back to the living. Her love for life, despite its difficulties, was infectious.

It was that ebullience that attracted a fellow student at the University of North Florida. He was on the basketball team. He was popular. And he’d fallen hard for Lola.

They were married a week after graduating. He’d found a job as an accountant at the Mayo Clinic. She’d been hired as a dental hygienist. They’d worked hard during the week and spent their weekends at the beach. Lola had always worn too much sunscreen. Her husband had enjoyed applying it.

Four years after they married, they’d bought a home on the St. Johns River. It was small, but with an incredible view. Lola and her husband had known they were blessed.

Six months after that, while they were still repainting the exterior and improving the landscaping in the tiny front yard, they were expecting their first child. It was a boy.

He was healthy, he was happy and, incredibly, slept through the night. They’d named him Sawyer, after her father.

They’d tried to have more children, but Lola miscarried twice. Despite the heartache, she’d reminded herself daily of her fortune. She had a healthy son, a loving husband, and a beautiful home.

Lola would have liked to stay home with her son, but the house had been expensive and the couple reasoned her income would eventually help pay for college.

Life had been good. Like so many families in 2032, they’d had plans for the future.

Sawyer’s eighth birthday had been the beginning of the end of those plans. It was the day Lola’s father died of pneumonia.

Lola’s husband had known the global threat called the Scourge was beginning to take hold in the United States. There had been loud whispers at the Mayo Clinic about failed vaccine trials and increasing patient loads.

It had quickly devolved into a crisis. Lola’s father was one of 326 people who died at a Jacksonville hospital on October 2, 2032. Another 417 died the next day. Within two weeks, the city had fallen into chaos.

Lola had kept believing they could stay in their home. Everything would work out for the best. It always had. No darkness was too black from which to find the light.

When a pair of thugs broke into their home, searching for food, and one of them threatened Sawyer at knifepoint, Lola had agreed it was time to leave.

They’d headed west for Louisiana. Her husband had known of a compound there. It belonged to a doctor friend. He was what her husband called a “prepper”. Lola didn’t really know what that meant. She hadn’t cared. She knew he’d developed a rural piece of land. It had several cabins, was stocked with food and supplies, and was hidden from the outside world. The doctor had offered them refuge.

It had taken them nearly a week to find it. Others, with less benevolent intentions, had beaten them there. The doctor and his family were dead. The food, however much of it there had been, was gone. Still, they’d hidden in one of the cabins for close to a month, until they’d run out of the supplies they’d brought with them.

It had only gotten worse from there. Lola, however, had remained hopeful. At least outwardly, she had convinced her family they would find a safe place to call home. The chaos couldn’t last forever, she’d believed. Eventually, they’d return home and begin again. Then her husband died and the optimism began to fade. A viral realism took hold, infecting the hope to which she had so long clung.

Now, five years later, the transformation was complete. Her son was missing, and her savior was likely dead. Lola looked over at Pico. He was rubbing his fingers on his mustache. It was his tell. He was nervous and afraid.

“We need to cut west,” he said. “If we stay on this highway, it’ll lead us straight north, away from Lubbock.”

“If we cut back, aren’t we in danger of getting caught?”

“Yes. We ain’t got a choice.”

Lola sighed. They steered the horses from the state highway and onto the dirt. Everything in front of her was gray or brown. The only life she could see was the occasional patch of green weed struggling against the cold.

“We should head straight at the sun,” Pico said. “It’s west. We’ll eventually hit Highway 84. We’ll turn right; that’ll get us to Lubbock.”

Lola’s horse seemed to enjoy the soft earth. It was running faster on the dirt. Lola could feel it in the rhythmic bounce of its gallop.

She tightened her grip on the reins and closed her eyes. The wind, though cold, felt good against her face. It reminded her of the Atlantic sea breeze that chilled Jacksonville Beach in the winter. She pictured her husband, the wind tousling his hair. He had Sawyer on his shoulders, his hands wrapped around their son’s pudgy feet. For a moment, she forgot where she was.